


I Want to Believe

by doctorbuffypotterlock79



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, Kinda Fluffy, Lesbian AU, Some weird shit, this is what happens when I watch x files reruns and get in my feelings, x files au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25201645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorbuffypotterlock79/pseuds/doctorbuffypotterlock79
Summary: An alien believer and a skeptic shouldn’t work. Everything about them clashes. But somehow FBI agents Vanessa ‘Spooky’ Mateo and Brooke Lynn Hytes manage just fine.
Relationships: Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo
Comments: 20
Kudos: 28





	I Want to Believe

**Author's Note:**

> So this is...something. I honestly don’t know what to call it. It’s not inspired by any specific episode of the X-Files, and you don’t need to be familiar with the show to read this. Thank you Writ for betaing and supporting this, you’re the best. I’d really appreciate any feedback you have!

(Now)

Everything about them clashes, but the most obvious is their desks. 

Vanessa’s is messy and haphazard. Week—and maybe even month, by the smell of one—old coffee cups are scattered along the surface and obscuring the lone photo on her desk, drops of coffee sticking to her computer keyboard and staining her stacks of newspaper articles, with quotes circled in frantic red pen. Not an inch is clean, even the drawers covered with taped-up newspaper articles and blurry photos, the insides crammed with handwritten accounts and old books of mythical creatures and her chip stash. Everything is urgent—Vanessa works with a breathless passion that moves into her desk, everything she cares about laid bare on the surface for all to see, with the sense that she was working as fast as she could, wanting to find things (find the _truth_ ) before it was too late. 

Brooke’s is just like her: neat, sparse, and secretive. She wipes the top down each week with Lysol, getting rid of her own coffee remnants. She keeps all her notes in a fancy leather notebook in handwriting so neat it looks typewritten, all her files in alphabetical order in a folder. There’s nothing personal on the top, save one picture. The bottom drawer is where Brooke really is, hidden behind metal like the real Brooke. That’s where she keeps the Snickers bars she sneaks on the sly, where she keeps the plush kitten keychain she likes to smooth her hands over, even the trashy magazines she pretends not to read. Her dedication is there in the notes and files and endless searching, not stopping until she has answers—answers that usually contradict Vanessa’s. Brooke’s own form of truth, but one no less hard-fought for. 

A believer and a skeptic. Everything about them clashes. They shouldn’t work. But considering the lone photo on both their desks is the same photo, of them locked in an embrace, they somehow do work. 

—-

Two Years Ago (Then)

_Spooky Mateo._

They’re transferring Brooke, and gone are her days of a private office with her own secretary, solving high-profile murder cases late into the night. 

No, she’s being led down, down, down, deep into the bowels of the FBI building, through freezing halls and over floors that haven’t seen a mop since the Reagan administration, all to receive her new moldy basement office with a woman who’s the butt of nearly every FBI joke. 

Vanessa ‘Spooky’ Mateo, so named because of her fascination with the paranormal, supernatural, and general what-the-fuckeries. 

Kids missing with no explanation? Mateo was there, insisting some blurry photo contained a UFO. Weird murders with lots of blood loss? There’s Mateo reading vampire lore from an old book. People acting weird? Alien cult, Mateo would claim, citing some obscure news clipping. 

“Here you are,” Ariel says, stopping at a door. “Have fun.” She’s gone with a smirk, and Brooke can just imagine the laughing she’ll do upstairs. 

Brooke takes a breath and steps inside. It’s just a temporary reassignment. New policy says Mateo has to have a partner, and Brooke got the shaft. A few months down here, tops, and she’ll be back in her clean office with her personal coffee machine and _real_ cases, not aliens, actually using her former doctor knowledge. 

The office smells like wet dog and coffee. There’s an empty desk crammed against the wall that must be Brooke’s, and the other desk—at least Brooke thinks it’s a desk and not an abstract art piece of newspapers and coffee cups—is Mateo’s. She’s currently hovering over a newspaper, pen behind her ear, poking into her wavy brown hair, and another in her hand, scribbling notes in the margins. She’s so focused that Brooke has to clear her throat three times before she snaps up like she got shocked. 

“You must be Brooke!” Vanessa jumps out of her chair and runs to Brooke, pumping her hand up and down and forcing Brooke to balance her box of desk stuff single-handedly. She’s kind of cute, now that Brooke sees her up close and not walking the opposite way. Her soft brown eyes are wide and passionate, her teeth dazzling in the dim lights, an oversized wool cardigan pulled over her button-down, no doubt to ward off the chill down here. 

“That’s me. And you’re Vanessa.” 

“Yep! Here’s your desk.” Vanessa nudges her into the corner. “It’s small down here, but not so bad. It does get cold, though. I have an extra jacket if you need it.” 

Brooke nods, loosening her white-knuckle grip on her box and brushing layers of dust off the desk. With a little dusting and polishing, it might not be so bad. Oh, who is she kidding. The computer probably hasn’t been turned on in 20 years and her teeth are practically chattering and her chair is held together with duct tape. 

She takes another breath and sits. The chair is actually comfortable, a small beacon of hope in this dungeon. Brooke has a better view of Vanessa’s side of the room, and the papers taped to the wall make her head explode, eyes pulled in fifty directions. Pictures of supposed UFO’s. Articles on disappearances, people sharing their alien abduction stories. Blown-up crop circle designs. Pins in a map signifying something Brooke doesn’t know. And right in the center, a poster proclaiming _I Want to Believe._

“Look.” Vanessa’s in front of her desk, hands on her hips, looking like a little kid playing tough. “I know they sent you here to babysit me. I know no one believes me. And I know you can’t wait to get outta here. But give me one case before you judge anything. Just one, okay?” 

Brooke thinks. She could refuse, march upstairs and demand her old office back. But something in Vanessa’s voice, or her eyes, fiery with determination, makes Brooke pause, something burning in her stomach. Snap judgements are unwise, she knows that. Working here, she has to think critically, look at all the pieces before she assembles them. And Vanessa did offer her a jacket, a kindness Brooke hasn’t seen from anyone else in this building. Brooke doesn’t want to run upstairs complaining like a little kid, either. Knowing her co-workers, they probably have an office pool going on how long she’ll last, and Brooke wants to prove them wrong, cost them some money. 

“All right,” Brooke says. “What have you got?” 

—-

(Now)

Their clothes are the same, standard uniform, yet still brimming with their differences. 

Vanessa wears her suit exactly as she should, with slight modifications. The jacket comes off at her desk, replaced with a worn cardigan that’s soft and cozy like a blanket. Her top two shirt buttons are usually undone, because she didn’t like the collar squeezing her. You’d never doubt she’s FBI from the proud, brash voice she announces herself with, the way she appears much larger than she is, but Vanessa still keeps her badge in her right waist pocket, easy to whip out and proclaim _FBI_ , like people do on TV. Brooke insists on ironing the suit for her, and Vanessa watches, mesmerized, and Brooke brings out sharp lines in the fabric. Vanessa will usually try it on after she’s done, relishing in the warmth, letting Brooke adjust her sleeves and collar and kiss her hands and neck. She’s happy every time that suit wrinkles because it means ironing day, means Brooke’s kisses. 

Brooke wears her suit exactly as she should: perfectly pressed, shirt buttons done all the way up, her shoes shiny enough to see your reflection. Her badge is kept in her left breast pocket for easy access, to show people even though her attitude makes it clear she is who she says she is. After years in loose scrubs, she likes the stiffness of the suit, the crisp lines and how it seals her up inside it, feeling safe and important with that suit on. It’s a point of pride for her when she puts it on in the morning. Vanessa’s hands often slip around her chest before she puts her shirt on, clothing Brooke’s bare skin with her warm hands. Vanessa will always say how she loves a woman in a suit, peppering kisses up Brooke’s chest and neck as she buttons the shirt for her. Vanessa’s kisses are another reason she loves the uniform. 

—-

(Then)

Vanessa snickers as Brooke grips the door handle. 

“Is the big bad agent afraid of my driving?” She teases. 

“Not you. Just the road’s so bumpy,” Brooke explains. 

It’s true the road is bumpy, flanked by dark woods and endless fields where they’d never find you. They’re past the point of radio signals, to where even Google maps can’t help you if you get lost. There’s a stillness and silence out here she likes, that reminds her of dry, dusty summers as a child, reading about aliens by flashlight.

“You’re not taking me out here to murder me, are you?” Brooke asks feebly. 

“I wouldn’t tell you if I was, would I?” Vanessa smiles and to her surprise, Brooke returns it, her face looking like it’s about to crack from the gesture. 

Brooke isn’t exactly what Vanessa suspected. Vanessa knows all about her, knows she has a medical degree and was top of her FBI class a year before Vanessa was top of hers. Brooke is good, a rule-follower, but very dedicated. She stays as late as Vanessa to finish a case, genuinely checking on people in the hospital after their case was solved. She’s annoyed with her reassignment, Vanessa can tell, but Brooke is giving her a chance, which is more than she can say of anyone else. 

Brooke’s got her nose buried in Vanessa’s notes, biting her lip as she reads. There’s been strange disappearances and reappearances for weeks, with no pattern: a toddler one day, a senior citizen the next, college kids and preteens following. All were gone for a few hours and woke up in their rooms with no memory beyond flashing lights and strange faces—hallmarks of extraterrestrial abductions, things Vanessa’s studied for years. Vanessa hasn’t found any leads, but a woman contacted her, believing she knows where the next disappearance will happen. 

Even Vanessa treads lightly with psychics—it’s an easy thing to fake, if you do research or have excellent deduction skills—but the woman’s phone call had been desperate, begging Vanessa to visit before another disappearance happened. 

Brooke looks up from the notes. “So,” she begins skeptically, “this woman thinks she knows where the next event will happen?” 

“Yes. Says she’s been having visions and realized they matched the disappearances on the news.” 

Brooke scoffs. 

“Guessing you never had your palm read or anything?” Vanessa asks. 

“It’s all fake. They look through your bag or something, or pick something so generic it can’t be wrong.” 

Vanessa sighs. Brooke’s not entirely wrong, but with a stubbornness Vanessa might struggle with. She’s not trying to turn Brooke into a full believer like her, but some acknowledgement that weird shit just happens, no explanation, would be nice. 

“A lot of them are fake, yeah,” Vanessa admits. “But sometimes they’re not. One time a psychic told me something my mom always says, word for word. There’s no way she could have known. Another told me my notebook was in the fridge, and it was, I dropped it without knowing. And another time—“

“But those are the exceptions,” Brooke insists. “The majority are fake, or just lucky guessers. There’s always a scientific explanation.” 

“I’m not saying science is fake and don’t vaccinate your kids, Mary!” Vanessa exclaims to a sheepish chuckle from Brooke. “All I’m saying is that some stuff can’t be explained. It can’t.” 

“Yeah, but I can’t write ‘unexplained’ in someone’s report. There has to be something real to write.” 

Brooke’s clinging to her orderly worldview, not that Vanessa can blame her for that. Who would question everything that’s so solid and real to them? Brooke’s a hard nut to crack, but Vanessa has a feeling that what’s inside will be worth the effort. 

“But you have to admit that unexplained fits sometimes. Weird markings on people’s bodies with no other injuries. Disappearances with no other explanations. Photos of creatures—“

“Those can be faked.” 

“But sometimes, Brooke, just sometimes, weird things happen and you can’t explain them.” If she can convince Brooke of this, she’ll consider it a win. Someone to at least try to understand her, to acknowledge that her years of research have merit. This has been her life for years, trying to find proof of what others wouldn’t consider. 

“Maybe.” 

Vanessa turns into the woman’s driveway so hard Brooke slams against the door. 

“Sorry.” 

“I’m good,” Brooke says. 

Vanessa’s not one for stereotypes, but the cottage before them...well, it could definitely be used as a set for a witch house in some horror movie. Rows of plants curl toward them along the path, ready to pull them into the soil. The circular windows watch them like eyes, following every move. Jagged wooden steps like broken teeth lead up to a crooked, scratched purple door that Vanessa knocks, vowing to show no fear in front of Brooke. 

The woman who answers is younger and prettier than Vanessa expected, not a wart or frog or crooked finger in sight. 

“Vanessa Mateo, FBI—“

“—Brooke Lynn Hytes, FBI.”

She and Brooke turn to each other, wondering why they didn’t sort out who would speak first. 

“First day working together, I see,” the woman says. “I’m Scarlet. Come on in.” 

Vanessa sticks her tongue out at Brooke and they step inside. 

“Tea?” Scarlet offers. “The water should be ready. I’ve got green tea and berry tea aside, I knew you were coming.” 

Brooke stiffens beside her. Vanessa’s favorite is berry tea, and she’s guessing from Brooke’s pale yet composed face that green tea is hers. 

She elbows Brooke playfully as they sit. 

“Lucky guess,” Brooke whispers. 

Scarlet puts the mugs in front of them and fidgets in her seat. 

“Is this gonna be like an interrogation?” she asks fearfully. 

“No,” Vanessa soothes. “Don’t you worry, you’re not in trouble at all. We just wanna hear about your visions, okay?” 

Scarlet nods, and Brooke pulls out her notes. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Brooke says. Her tone is calm and even, not stressing Scarlet, and it’s a point of approval for Brooke in Vanessa’s book. So many people would have demanded answers or spooked Scarlet, but Brooke is surprisingly gentle even if skeptical. 

“I’ve always seen stuff,” Scarlet begins. “Knew when my grandma was coming over, knew my birthday present before I opened it. But the last few months I’ve been having these dreams. There’s flashing lights and numbers and these big dark smudges in the sky. I didn’t think anything of it till Yvie--she’s my girlfriend--had the news on, and the house number where one of the disappearances happened matched a number in my dream. And they’ve all matched since then. Except one. The most recent one. I think it’s where the next disappearance is gonna be, and it’s tonight. I can feel it.”

The only sound is the scratching of Brooke’s pen. Vanessa is riveted in her seat. Flashing lights and dark smudges are very promising signs, a hint that this is beyond the natural world, like she thought. 

“What’s the number?” Vanessa asks. 

“256. It’s a green house with white shutters. Morning-something Lane is the street name. That’s all I saw.” She pauses, looks at them in concern. "Will that help?"

"It helps a lot," Vanessa assures her, and it does. They have the day to find this house, and with Scarlet’s tip, it shouldn't be so hard. They can stop another person from disappearing, and there’s a new spring in Vanessa’s step as they thank Scarlet and head outside. 

“So,” Brooke prompts. 

“So.” Vanessa's not going to gloat about Scarlet, but she's not giving an inch either. 

Brooke sighs. “Well, we need to find the house and get the people out. Tell them there’s a gas leak or something so they’ll listen. Problem solved.”

Vanessa nods, because that was her plan too. Except for one thing. “Well…”

“Well what?” Brooke demands, and the tiny crease in her forehead is almost cute, proves that her perfect face is very human.

“Get the people out, yes. But I want to watch the house tonight. I want to see if anything happens. And I want you to come with me.”

—-

(Now)

Bedtime is Vanessa’s favorite thing with Brooke. It was something they used to do differently, something Brooke changed to help Vanessa sleep better. Vanessa used to hate sleeping, would bury herself in work until she passed out at the kitchen table. She’s always afraid of the dreams. Dreams of all the things that happened when she was little, crying into her blankets because no one believed her. She burrows into the mattress when she sleeps, blankets snug around her like it will keep the dreams from exploding out. With Brooke, she doesn’t have to be scared. She snuggles against Brooke, Brooke’s arm secure around her, holding her down. When she does have the dreams, when she mumbles into her pillow and cries out in her sleep, Brooke is there, gently kissing the back of her neck and telling her it’s all okay, she’s there and won’t let anything hurt her. She’s never slept as well as she does with Brooke. 

Brooke was never one for sharing a bed. She liked to sprawl out on her mattress, tug all the blankets over her, roll over and not have to worry about hitting anyone. She could sleep with files and notes littering the sheets and no one would care. But with Vanessa, bedtime has become something special. Brooke sprays their pillows with a calming lavender spray she thought might help Vanessa sleep. She usually tucks Vanessa in and then slips behind her, holding her close. Brooke never craved another person against her chest while she sleeps, but she can’t imagine sleeping without Vanessa there now. And when Vanessa thrashes against her, whimpering in her sleep, Brooke does all she can to keep Vanessa together and calm her down. She’s never slept as well as she does with Vanessa. 

\---

(Then)

256 Morning Bird Lane is in the middle of nowhere, because of course it is. 

“Can’t these aliens ever land in a city?” Brooke complains. “At least near a freaking grocery store or some sign of civilization.”

The emptiness is making her uneasy. She and Vanessa are parked in some lot across the street from the house, and there is literally nothing for miles. Brooke’s a city girl. She likes trying new restaurants every week and having hundreds of grocery stores to choose from and never being far from a hospital should disaster strike. She likes knowing there are _people_ around, even if she appreciates the anonymity from those people that a large city grants her. Sure, people suck when they smash into her on the subway during her commute or hold up the line arguing over coupons, but at least they were _there_. There’s nothing like that here, no glow of city lights or hum of cars, no knowledge that people are nearby, living lives as complicated as yours. There’s nothing but trees and darkness and silence, and the hair on Brooke’s neck is standing up at the thought. She’s grateful Vanessa is here with her, to save her from the abyss of silent solitude. 

“So you do think it’s aliens,” Vanessa challenges. 

“Absolutely not. I don’t care if Jabba the fucking Hutt himself drops out of the sky. I just can’t wait to get out of here.”

Vanessa shrugs. “We lived out in the country when I was little before we moved. It’s not so bad. And I brought snacks if you’re hungry, y’know.”

“I’m fin--are those Snickers?”

“Yeah.”

Brooke reaches in Vanessa’s bag and pulls one out, letting chocolate and peanuts fill her mouth. At least she has candy, a reminder of the city vending machines and check-out counters that await her. 

“Scarlet told me they’re your favorite.”

Brooke’s heart stops. “You’re shitting me.”

Vanessa tries to keep a straight face, but she caves with a mighty laugh. “Yeah, I’m kidding. I just grabbed ‘em because they’re my favorite too.”

“Oh.” Snickers are Vanessa’s favorite candy. It’s a pointless fact, no value in knowing it. But it feels important to Brooke somehow, like it’s a part of Vanessa uncovered. What is a person, really, other than a collection of things they love? Christ, this middle-of-nowhere shit is making her philosophical. Soon she’ll notice how gorgeous Vanessa looks in the moonlight.

They eat their candy and lapse into silence. 

“What made you join the bureau?” Vanessa asks. 

“I started doing medical consulting with them a few years ago. Then the bureau offered me a full position, working cases and helping with the medical stuff. Said they’d pay off my med school loans and my bureau training fees, and I was in so much debt after med school it seemed like a good idea.”

She’s always wanted to help people. Brooke had gone into medicine for that reason, to help people and give them better lives. An old mentor of hers from med school recommended Brooke as an FBI consultant, and she answered questions about murders and injuries for stony-faced, black-suited agents. She couldn’t help but hope they’d show up every day, bring her a big case to help with, to bring a killer to justice and prevent more people from being hurt. Bring her excitement she didn’t know she was missing. Her life as a doctor wasn’t boring, but when she heard the FBI was coming it gave her a thrill like nothing else, preferring their cases to her own. When they offered her the job, she realized all she wanted was to be part of that world, wearing that suit and solving crimes, to be one of them instead of their consultant. 

She doesn’t tell any of this to Vanessa, whose knowing look hints she understands how much this job means to Brooke. But there’s no need to bare her soul to Spooky Mateo. 

She’s not quite as spooky as Brooke thought, though. She’s almost sweet, soothing Scarlet and packing stakeout snacks. There’s bravery in her, the way she marched up to Scarlet’s house without an ounce of fear. Vanessa’s a fighter, Brooke can see all the traits she herself carries present in Vanessa, in her determination to keep going and boldness to just go after what she wants because there’s no other way she’ll get it. It’s probably been that way since she was a kid, and Brooke softens a little.

“Well, I’m glad you joined,” Vanessa says. “It’s kinda nice to have you here.”

“Just kinda nice?” Brooke teases. 

“Yeah.”

Brooke snorts against her will. “How did you join the FBI?”

Vanessa smirks. “You wondering how Spooky Mateo ended up here, aren’t ya?”

“Maybe a little.” Brooke’s grateful the darkness hides her burning cheeks. 

“I don’t blame you.” Vanessa shrugs. “I just wanted to help people, really. People who don’t get listened to.” She takes a breath. “When I was little, weird shit always happened. Flashing lights and dark things in the sky. Weird shadows in my room. Sometimes my toys would move around on the shelves. One night I swear I saw some sort of...creature. Something not natural. Everyone said it was my imagination, but it was _real_. My parents dragged me to all these doctors, and eventually they decided moving to the city might help. The things stopped happening after that, but I never forgot them. And that’s what I wanted to investigate. Stuff you couldn’t explain.”

She really does believe what she’s saying. Brooke’s interviewed enough people to recognize honesty. But can Brooke believe her? Her rational side kicks in. Boredom in the country could have caused Vanessa’s overactive imagination, which calmed down with the city’s stimulation. It makes sense. But Vanessa shaped her entire life and career around those events. She wants to find the truth, and Brooke respects her for it, even if that truth isn’t hers. 

“You don’t have to believe me,” Vanessa says. “But that’s why.”

“I--” Brooke freezes when the time on the car dash crosses her vision. It can’t be right, it can’t be. She checks her watch. _No no no_. “Vanessa?”

“Yeah?”

“The last time I checked the clock, it was 10:51. I know it.” Brooke swallows hard and points to the time now. 

10:43.

“Shit,” Vanessa breathes. 

Brooke blinks, and the time flickers to 10:51. Maybe it was her imagination--there’s a sudden gust of wind, enough to make the car shake. The dashboard lights blink on and off, the car headlights throwing light all over then fading into darkness. 

“Vanessa!” Brooke yells over the howling wind, but no answer. Brooke closes her eyes against the blinding lights, can’t see Vanessa beside her.

The radio switches on despite having no signal, classic rock and then pop and then something unintelligible blasting through the speakers and rattling the windows. The bottles in the cupholder shake in place, liquids bouncing all over the plastic. There’s a loud whirring sound above them, a black shape blocking out the moon and throwing beams of light that bounce off the house across the street before vanishing all at once. 

The clock changes to 10:52.

Brooke’s chest burns as she takes her first breath in she doesn’t know how long. Her knees are up against her chest to protect her, and her sweaty, tense hand is currently being squeezed by Vanessa, who is in the middle console of the car, half-in Brooke’s lap. Vanessa’s hand is soft and warm, her body solid and soothing against her, and Brooke is almost sad when she lets go and shifts into the driver’s seat. 

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Brooke demands, still trying to get her breathing under control. 

“I don’t--” Vanessa’s chest heaves as she draws in air “--I don’t know. But it had to be the cause of the disappearances. Just like Scarlet said. Some kind of space--”

“Don’t say spaceship.” Brooke’s rational brain churns to life, trying to turn what she’s seen into something real, something concrete and logical. Something that makes sense. “It was--it was probably a helicopter.”

“That was no fucking helicopter and you know it! Electrical disturbances, time malfunctioning, they’re all signs of extraterrestrial activity.” 

“No, okay? No! There’s some logical explanation, and that was not some alien ship here to abduct someone.”

“I was right! You know I am!” 

Vanessa takes a breath, and the silence fills the car to bursting. Brooke can’t do this anymore. Her mind is reeling and the argument is taking more energy than she has. 

“Look, can we just go? I don’t want to be here anymore.” Brooke’s voice comes out smaller than she intends, and it softens the anger on Vanessa’s face. 

“Yeah,” Vanessa agrees. “Let’s go.”

Vanessa reaches into the cupholder for her drink at the same time as Brooke and their heads smack into each other. 

“Ow, shit!”

“What the hell kind of blockhead you got?”

The next thing Brooke knows, they’re laughing. Laughing to stay sane after what happened, to cling to each other, to go back to normal, even if that normal may not fit Brooke’s definition anymore. It’s the perfect thing to break the tension, and when Brooke locks eyes with Vanessa, the brown wide and soft before her, she wonders if this was meant to happen. If there is something beyond this universe, something bringing them together. 

“What did you say before? About unexplained stuff?” 

“Sometimes things just happen and you can’t explain them.”

“Yeah,” Brooke says. 

And then they’re both leaning in, and the kiss defies explanation. Brooke’s lips melt against Vanessa’s, their hearts still racing and speeding up even more at their touches. Brooke rests one hand on Vanessa’s shoulder and the other on her thigh, two points of contact to ground her, prove that they’re both here, doing this. Vanessa is intoxicating, burying her hands in Brooke’s hair and pulling her closer, until their chests are touching and Brooke’s knee is against the gear shift but she doesn’t even feel it. It’s just them here, just them kissing, and when she pulls back Brooke thinks of Vanessa’s poster and knows that if she believes in anything, it’s Vanessa. 

—-

(Now)

“Wanna get pizza tonight?” Vanessa asks. 

“I kinda want burritos,” Brooke says sheepishly, and Vanessa rolls her eyes. 

“Pizza tonight and burritos this weekend?” Brooke suggests. 

Vanessa nods. The compromising is something she’s gotten used to, working together on things while accepting they still have their differences. 

It’s been two years since Brooke was transferred down here, two years of taking cases no one thinks twice about and helping people the best they can. Two years of being partners at work and almost two years of being partners at home, of trying to cook and cuddling on the couch and sleeping together, making even things like grocery shopping and cleaning fun as long as they’re together. 

Even if Brooke fights tooth and nail to scientifically explain everything, and Vanessa pushes for unconventional ideas, to consider paranormal events, they’ve still managed all these years. They work together perfectly, their ideas and methods often meeting in the middle. Vanessa’s odd sources getting them a real lead that Brooke’s formalities couldn’t. Brooke’s medical knowledge saving someone Vanessa would have thought gone. She knows Brooke doesn’t always believe, and that’s okay. 

Because Vanessa believes in her, believes in them, and as Brooke takes her hand as they head out of the office, she knows Brooke believes too.


End file.
